


Dib's Christmas Wish

by JoeMerl



Category: Invader Zim
Genre: Canon Compliant, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Father-Son Relationship, Gaz Being Gaz (Invader Zim), Gen, Mall Santa Claus, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27822664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoeMerl/pseuds/JoeMerl
Summary: "So...you're telling me that in order for your family to have a merry Christmas...I have to agree to give your father weapons of mass destruction?""...Yeah, pretty much."A mall Santa gets some surreal Christmas requests.
Relationships: Dib & Professor Membrane
Kudos: 27





	Dib's Christmas Wish

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on Fanfiction.net on December 23, 2008.
> 
> A bit too wordy, as always, but otherwise this holds up better than I expected.

Carl was having a rough day.

It was always tough around the holiday season, _especially_ when _he_ had to play Santa. And unfortunately, this year he did. The guy they got last year refused to come back (indeed, according to the nurses, he did little these days but mutter something about floating moose), so the job once again fell to Carl, and today he was having a particularly tough time of it. As it was, two kids had pulled off his beard that day, three starting screaming when he suggested their lists were too long, and one had peed in his lap, forcing him to rush to the dry cleaner's at the expense of his lunch hour. All this added to the usual stress of being sat on by children, having presents demanded, and watching parents in the background shake their heads with each overpriced item they listed.

And the kid on him _now_ seemed particularly needy.

"And then I want the _moooooon..._ and the _skyyyyyy..._ and a box uh _tequitos..._ and then I want a _bed_ with some _salamanders_ in it _,_ and—"

"Um—maybe that's enough, little boy," Carl suggested, holding up one gloved hand. "Santa has to save some gifts for all the other little boys and girls, doesn't he?"

"Oh." The boy sounded disappointed, almost close to tears. Then instantly he perked up. "OKIE-DOKIE! BYE-BYE, SQUISHY-MAN!"

He jumped up, suddenly kissed Carl on the face, then hopped to the ground and skipped merrily away.

As he skipped past, the next boy in line's eyes widened. "Gaz! That's Zim's robot! Look, Gaz! That's Zim's stupid little assistant, dressed up like a kid—"

"Shut up, Dib. We're next," the girl beside him said, and walked over to Carl's throne and up onto his lap, all the while clutching a Game Slave 2 in her hands.

"Ho, ho, ho! Well, hello, little girl!" Carl said, forcing himself to sound as jolly as he could. "And what's your name?"

"Gaz." A simple statement that somehow sounded strangely like a threat.

"Well, hello, Gas! And have you been a good little— _HEY!"_

The girl's hand had shot out and snatched at Carl's faux beard; eyes widening, he feared a three-peat of the day's earlier events, but instead she simply pulled his face down as she raised her video game, shoving it into his face.

"See this? This is _Vampire Piggy Hunter I_. _Vampire Piggy Hunter II: Rise of the Hoglord_ just came out. I want it. _Bad,_ " she added, one eyeball suddenly twitching. "So you're gonna get it for me, _right?!_ "

"Um—sure, I guess! Just— _agh!_ Please, little girl, just let go of my beard!"

" _Good._ I'm glad we understand each other," she said simply, releasing his beard. Then without another word she hopped down off his knee and walked past the boy at the head of the line. "He's all yours," she said simply, not even looking up.

The boy took a deep breath. He looked nervous as he approached "Santa's" seat and climbed slowly onto his lap. Carl let out a low groan as he sat down. "Well now! You're a _big_ boy then, aren't you?"

The customer crossed his arms, looking annoyed. "Okay, yeah. I know I'm a little bit _old_ to be doing this, alright? And before we get started, let's make it clear that I _know_ you're not the real Santa. But I've heard people say all you mall-Santas work for him or something, so this seemed like the best way to get a message to him, alright?"

"Uh, okay," Carl said, startled. He had been expecting a much more...well, _stupid_ response; a twelve-year-old with the mind of a six-year-old, not one who sounded like a caustic adult. "And, uh—what do you want for Christmas, little boy?" he asked, trying to regain his Santanic composure.

"What? Oh, nothing."

Carl blinked. " _Nothing?_ "

"Well, I mean, yeah, I want stuff, but I don't really need anything from you. Or your boss, whatever. My dad pretty much takes care of everything. You know, since Santa's not really allowed in our house?"

Carl blinked. The boy went on.

"See, what I really want is for my dad. He—"

"Oh, please don't tell me he has cancer," Carl muttered, slapping his hand in front of his eyes.

The boy drew back, startled. "N-no?"

"Oh, thank goodness. Tell me, kid, do you have any idea how many people come in here per day with some sob story about their mother being in the hospital, or how Daddy ran off with his secretary, and then expect _me_ to find some way to tell them Santy Claus can fix it all?" He shook his head with a heavy sigh. "Anyway...you were saying?"

"...Right. See," and now the boy regained a businesslike tone, "my dad has this big grudge against Santa. It all started because Santa didn't give him some uranium-238 that he wanted when he was a kid."

"You're kidding."

"Yeah, I know. But the point is, the holidays are usually great for my family, but Dad freaks out if my sister or I even try to write to Santa or anything. He'd freak out even if he knew I were here! I mean, he's always been this way, but it seems to just be getting worse. He was actually happy after last year's 'evil fake Santa' thing—but now that he's figured out it was a fake Santa and that the _real_ Santa _will_ be coming this year...I mean, normally Christmas time is pretty much the only time of year he takes off from work. But for the last month all he's been doing is beefing up the Anti-Kringle System, restocking the missiles and trying to create a new radioactive cookie recipe and—"

"Um—" Carl held up his hand; he had a feeling this kid could have blabbered on for quite a while if given the chance, and frankly he was having kind of a hard time following. "I'm very sorry about all that, uh, young man, but I really don't understand what you want Santa to do..."

"Oh. Well, look," the boy said, holding his hands up as if praying, "my dad is just going nuts over this. So, if you—or the real Santa, whoever—could just promise to bring some uranium-238 this year..."

"Uranium-238?"

"Yeah. I mean, I don't know if it'll really help—you know, he can get all he wants now...but I mean, it would be a really good gesture, right? The kind of corny thing you always see in the Christmas movies, you know, the grinchy guy gets the present he always wanted and suddenly turns nice and everything? Like that."

"So...you're telling me that in order for your family to have a merry Christmas...I have to agree to give your father weapons of mass destruction?"

"...Yeah, pretty much."

"...You're not wearing a wire or anything, are you?" Carl asked suspiciously. There was, after all, a history of Santa having problems with the U.S. government over trade embargoes and that sort of thing.

"What? No!"

"...Alright then. Um...Santa will see what he can do, alright?"

The boy's face broke into a slightly-relieved grin. "Thanks. Oh!" He dug into the pocket of his trench coat for a moment and pulled out a slip of paper. "Here. You'll need these."

Carl frowned through his fake beard as he unfolded the paper. "What's this?"

"All the security codes and things Santa will need to get through the system. Tell him _not_ to try the chimney—that's the most heavily guarded spot. In fact he might want to tunnel in, if he can..."

"T-Tunnel?." Carl shook his head as he stuffed the little slip into his costume's pocket. "Um...will there be anything else?"

"Well..."

The boy frowned for a moment, looking around—then, bringing his face much closer to Carl's and dropping his voice to a whisper, he muttered, "I don't want to push my luck, but if Santa could also bring me an _indestructible_ pair of Alien Sleep Cuffs, that would be _great._ But the uranium thing's more important."

"Alien Sleep Cuffs?" Carl repeated, with the deadpan tone of a man who cannot be surprised further.

"Yeah. If he can. Thanks." Smiling weakly again, he hopped down from Carl's lap and began to go, turning his large head back for just a moment. "And, um, merry Christmas." And then he turned back and scurried away through the crowd.


End file.
